


Out Here Waiting

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Series: Summer Omens [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Anthony JActs of Service Crowley, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Summer Omens (Good Omens), minor injury, non-graphic injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25356601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: Crowley cooks. Chaos ensues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836280
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	Out Here Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Summer Omens prompt BURN and originally posted [here](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/post/623716788540145664/burn).

Aziraphale lets himself into Crowley’s flat with the keys Crowley gave him only a couple of weeks ago. They don’t technically need keys, miracles being what they are, but it’s the symbolism of the thing. Crowley showing him he wants Aziraphale to come over and let himself in whenever the fancy strikes him. No invitation needed.

He drops the keys in the little dish by the door, looks down at them, and smiles.

Today he _has_ been invited. Food, wine, and something called Net Flicks. Aziraphale is ambivalent—happy to spend time with Crowley and sharing in his interests, but also dreading whatever the Heaven the thing is.

Before he steps much further into the flat, Aziraphale catches a smell that has him lifting his nose and breathing deeply. Something smells _delicious_. He wonders if Crowley has already ordered takeaway.

As he wanders through the flat towards the smell, he hears Crowley. He can’t hear exactly what he’s saying yet, but from the volume and the fury of his voice, Aziraphale assumes there is a lot of swearing involved.

The smells and sounds lead him to the kitchen, where Aziraphale stands in the doorway observing the scene.

Crowley is standing at the hob, stirring something in a large pot with one hand while he looks down and scrolls on his phone with the other. There are several knives laying about on the counter top, along with a chopping board and bits of vegetables. From the straps Aziraphale can see looped over his head and tied around his waist, Crowley’s even wearing an apron.

Crowley is _cooking_ and Aziraphale can’t keep the beaming smile from his face.

Instead of interrupting what seems like a stressful situation, Aziraphale continues to watch silently from the doorway.

“I’ve added all the basil already. You didn’t tell me I needed save some to sprinkle on the top!” Crowley growls down at his phone, obviously unimpressed with the recipe he’s following.

Aziraphale wonders what he’s making.

“Tough shit, I don’t have a dish that size. It can go in what I have and _like it_.”

Crowley turns, picking up a glass oven dish from the counter before catching sight of Aziraphale. He jumps and almost drops the dish, but catches it just in time.

“For fuck’s— Where did you come from?”

Aziraphale gives him an innocent little wave. “The front door. You gave me keys, remember?”

Crowley nods, turning to place the dish by the pot on the hob.

“You’re cooking?” asks Aziraphale.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m simply making an observation.”

“It’s not a big deal. It didn’t seem that hard, I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.” Crowley shrugs. “Piece of cake.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to put basil in cake.” Aziraphale tells him.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know your idea of a ‘piece of cake’ involves copious amounts of swearing.”

“And wine,” says Crowley as he holds up his almost-empty glass and waves it about.

“You started without me? How many glasses do I need to catch up?” Aziraphale dashes across the room to pour himself a large glassful.

“Only a couple. I needed the assistance alcohol brings.”

It’s not Crowley’s best wine, Aziraphale notes thankfully, as he gulps down half his glass. This close, he can now see what Crowley’s apron says.

 _Hot stuff coming through_.

Aziraphale snorts into his wine, but doesn’t disagree.

“What are you cooking?” he asks.

“Just a pasta bake. Nothing fancy, don’t get your hopes up. If it’s terrible I have takeaway menus on standby.”

“It smells wonderful,” Aziraphale reassures him.

“Hmmm,” Crowley hums non-committally.

Aziraphale retreats to the other side of the kitchen with his glass of wine and the bottle. Sitting down to watch, but giving Crowley space.

Crowley ladles out the contents on the pot into the dish, before sprinkling it with cheese. ‘Sprinkle’ might be the wrong word, with the sheer amount he uses, but Aziraphale isn’t about to complain. Once the dish is overflowing with cheese, Crowley pulls open the oven door. He’s met with the steam of a pre-heated oven and slides the dish in before closing the door.

“Right,” he says, turning to Aziraphale. “We’ve got 10 minutes. Where’s that wine?”

-

Aziraphale might have done too good a job at trying to catch Crowley up, because three glasses of wine and much longer than 10 minutes later he sniffs the air and pulls a face.

“Can you smell smoke?” he asks.

Crowley’s eyes widen comically as he cries, “Fuck!” and upends his chair in his rush to get up.

At the oven, Crowley is wafting smoke with a tea towel and articulating some very choice language.

“Open a window!” he calls at Aziraphale, who rushes to comply.

The fresh breeze on his face is a delight when he gets the window open as far as it will go. He pauses for only a few seconds, his attention quickly drawn by another harsh curse and the sound of glass breaking.

Aziraphale turns to see pasta, tomato sauce, and broken glass littering the kitchen floor. But more concerning is Crowley, squatting low and clutching a hand to his chest.

“What happened?” asks Aziraphale as he dashes over.

“Fucking stupid—I didn’t think, just stuck my hand in to pull the thing out the oven.”

Aziraphale winces in sympathy. “Crowley, dear, let me see.”

Reluctantly, Crowley holds out his hand for Aziraphale to inspect. It looks bad, but Aziraphale runs his own hand over it slowly, working his literal magic, and when he’s done there is an angry red mark, but no burn.

Crowley sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

-

A couple of hours later, sitting on Crowley’s sofa, watching a young girl get nose bleeds as she makes things move with her mind, and eating pakoras, Aziraphale lets out a quiet chuckle.

“What?” asks Crowley, nabbing an onion bhaji and looking at Aziraphale.

“You can drive through Hellfire and come out unscathed, but a dish that’s been in the oven is too much for you?”

The onion bhaji suddenly finds itself colliding with the side of Aziraphale’s head.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/).


End file.
